


Summertime Record

by Ailuro



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Historical Hetalia, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 18:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13769625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ailuro/pseuds/Ailuro
Summary: Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy have had an undeniably complicated relationship over the years, as enemies, rivals and ultimately the closest of lovers. As countries it is inevitable that their duty to 'king and country' come before any emotional responsibilities that they may have. Despite this however, 9th April 1904 they sign a treaty that puts an end to their hostility. The Entente Cordiale becomes not only the reason for their peace, but also the sole reason they decided to rent a small beach-hut on the coast of Scarborough, England.Ever since then, over one-hundred years later, the hut still stands, and the lease is still renewed even though now it's hardly used. The pair couldn't bare to get rid of it, as it was the start of so many cherished memories.





	Summertime Record

Arthurs favourite words from the 1920's include: Bearcat (A lively, spirited woman, possibly with a fiery streak) and Bluenose (a term used for a prude individual, or someone deemed to be a killjoy.) Arthur himself hadn't coined those terms, yet still used them in the modern day and age, as a celebration of history. It was not a surprise that many other good things came out of that era.

One thing in particular that had been on his mind was the Entente Cordial. The treaty that was reluctantly signed between himself and Francis. It marked the end of centuries of fighting. And was of course, not because they decided that they'd had enough of wars- but rather because the threat of war with neighbouring European nation Germany, had been enough to make them both rethink exactly which battles were important to fight in. Besides, they were stronger as allies and knew it. That didn't mean it was easy to work together, it had been over one hundred years since the Entente and nothing much other than their allegiance had changed. Perhaps that was to be expected, as their relationship was by no means an uncomplicated one. Arthur remembered being urged by his king at the time to improve relations with Francis for the sake of the developing war, which would consequentially become known as World War One. At the time, merely the thought of spending time with Francis had made him feel sick. Before the most recent turn of the century, Arthur was admittedly not terribly good with diplomatic relations, (besides his empire) and having to vouch for the favour of an old enemy (who he was still incredibly wary of) was a slight step over the mark. Even now, over one hundred years later; their relationship was only more complicated than it needed to be. It was to be expected though; they had such a long history. Francis was all Arthur knew as a child (other than his brothers, who were sufficed to say, not pleasant company) they were just children when united under the Roman Empire, and had been children still when their leaders had engaged in the first Anglo-French war and consequent invasion. Francis had a winning streak at the beginning; Arthur would contribute this to his young age and naivety. He grew up quickly as all surviving nations should, and they had been at odds ever since. Especially when Arthur had begun to gain a strong empire with an abundance of colonies, but that was another story, and one that hurt Arthur more than he could bare. If Arthur was physically forced to place a name on his relationship with Francis (not just the nation of France, but the person underneath) he may reluctantly agree that they had been teetering on the edge of a relationship, or at-least an incredibly strong admiration since the sixteen hundreds and the golden age of piracy. 

The English nation stood, holding a thermos mug of tea, as he overlooked Scarborough beach, leaning against the old wooden door of his beach-hut. The metal hinges were rusted and creaky; damp had started to infest the inside corner by the shelves, and the wooden floor boards had definitely seen better days. The stripped paint behind Arthur was chipped and peeling- blue and white stripes had faded in the weather. Arthur sighed, breathing out a cloud of air. The waves in front of him churned a deep grey underneath the rainy morning clouds of England. It was mid-spring, 6th April 2018, and precisely three days away from the yearly anniversary of the Entente Cordiale. Arthur would spend it the same as he did mostly every year since the last world war; alone. He held the steam of the tea close to his face as he gazed out at the ocean; its soft sound against the stones reminded him again of home. It was decidedly easy to forget what his island used to look like; he remembered when the coast of Scarborough had been chalk cliffs, like Dover and the Isle of Wight. Now however, it was sandy and commercial.

He watched the sun slowly rise over the rows of beach-huts as the sea birds began to take to the wind, curling their wings towards the sky and dipping into the ocean spray. The salt was heavy in the morning breeze, but it was not as cold as Arthur had expected. He drank the last of his tea, running a hand through his hair and pulling the jacket and scarf closer to his body. He would have liked to stay longer but unfortunately the life of a country was restless, and he had a business meeting in London at 11:00am. Breathing the last of the sea air into his lungs, Arthur gazed out over the straight of the channel; perhaps he would visit Dover soon, or Hastings. It had been a while since he had been so psychically close to the rest of Europe.

He stood up straight and turned to enter the beach hut behind him, placing his mug down to lock up before leaving for the train station. As Arthur brushed past the wooden coffee table to place his mug down by the travel kettle, he knocked a photo album that was resting on the shelf to the floor. He cursed much like he did during his time as a sailor, and scrambled to pick up the photographs. Marvelously incidents such as this always seemed to happen when he was in a hurry, never when he had time to leisurely waste on such things. Upon picking up the photo album, hundreds of photos began leaking out of the pages; Arthur stooped to pick them up quickly, resting the album lightly on his knee as he did. He stopped quite suddenly, and stood back up, carefully looking over the bundle of photographs in his arms, leaving the album to fall to the ground again. There were many photos from over the years, most of them of various buildings in England, some of them from just after the Eiffel tower was built and other Parisian monuments. Others were pictures of Alfred and Matthew on holiday in Europe- Arthur hadn't taken them, they had been taken by Francis no doubt. (It wasn't Arthur’s photo album after all.) Arthur was just about to put the photos back and pretend nothing had ever happened when a small black and white photograph caught his attention. He remembered the flash, the smell of salt, the suits and music, how the beach hut first looked when they had started renting it together- in the very beginning.

* * *

 **March 31st 1904 - Two weeks before the Entente Cordial is signed**  
   
_French proverb_  
_‘Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir’_  
_A phrase that can be translated as ‘It’s better to prevent than to heal’ meaning it is better to take precautions against the likelihood of injury instead of having to heal it later._

* * *

 Arthurs king had proposed Francis visit England despite the tensions, as a 'most honoured guest.' Arthur of course was against this idea, not that it mattered. It was decided that he was to show Francis around the popular beach and tourist destination of Scarborough, a coastal town that many of his wealthy citizens had grown to enjoy in moderation. Francis and Arthur posed for a picture in their suits, and expensive leather shoes. The French nation had been a guest in his home for just over two hours and it was already a tiresome arrangement.

"Perfect!" Francis exclaimed as the photograph developed, though it sounded shallow, Arthur supposed he was just looking for substantial proof that they had actually spent time together, before calling his visit short. That in all honesty would have probably made both of their lives ten times easier. (Despite the pain it would cause to tell his monarch that he had not made any real progress with Anglo-French relations.) Arthur paid the photographer a standard fee, and took a look at the picture Francis was holding. Francis looked as stunning as ever, Arthur had indeed expected as much. Even without colour the picture was still just as flattering to the French nation, there was truly no other European nation that glowed quite as much as he did. Arthur supposed it was probably something that came with being 'the country of love,' he remembered Greece had said something about him being blessed by Aphrodite- Arthur wouldn't go quite that far, but he had to give credit where credit was due. Francis' hair was still distinctly shiny even without the gold of his hair present in the photograph. His eyes still managed to show the glimmering reflection of the sun just right, dazzling smile and the life in his posture was all reminiscent of perfection, in comparison Arthur believed he looked almost like a corpse. Eyes hollow and dark, (the dark green of his eyes did absolutely nothing to help this) his posture was stiff and expression a grimace.

“My, Arthur, what a pair we make?” Francis exclaimed in horrifically accented French.

“Perhaps.” Arthur replied bluntly, he really had nothing else to say (not because he didn’t want to) but because he was truly at a loss for words, this was the first time they had actually been forced to make an effort in the interest of public relations, for many years. The whole world believed they hated each other and maybe they weren’t wrong, but it certainly wasn't completely right either. It had been a very, very long time since Arthur had looked deeply into Francis' blue eyes, without a sword or musket pointed directly towards his heart.

“Why so solemn, there’s a certain ‘je ne ce quoi,’ no?” France began walking away from the beach photographer, cane under his arm and a grin on his face. Arthur rolled his eyes and followed behind, arms crossed. Francis flashed a practiced smile at some passing English women, who began giggling among themselves. “This coast is beautiful despite being English, I am almost impressed- are you sure we are on your island?” Arthur was about to retort with a cutting remark before Francis interrupted him again. “I also like these small houses, what do you call them?”

  
“Hm?” Arthur looked up at his companion running a hand over the wood of a beach-hut, he tilted his head unable to hide his confusion. “It is known as a beach-hut. As far as I know, mainly women use them to maintain their modesty while they swim- that’s why they’re on wheels, you can get changed in privacy and then move them to the edge of the water.”

  
“What an out dated philosophy, give it another twenty years and you will have caught up with the French, oui? That’s usually how it works, if I am not mistaken?” Francis laughed, a teasing edge to his voice. Arthurs large eyebrows furrowed, looking down his started cheeks heating up in embarrassment, and images of French women showing their ankles whilst at the beach- it was absolutely absurd.

“I am uninterested in what you think is ‘proper,’ quite frankly, Francis. In fact, I would be more than happy to avoid the subject altogether.”

“You are altogether quite prude, non? I always thought that my influence on you amounted to nothing.” Francis sighed, losing interest and continuing to walk.

“Something we should all be glad of apparently.” Arthur was truly starting to get grumpy; it only encouraged Francis’ teasing.

Arthur managed to bite his tongue, knowing that anything he said to upset the treaty deal would ultimately end up coming right back at him, ten times harder. The pair carried on with their walk side-by-side without conversation, it was an easy silence, and the beach was relatively quiet for it being so sunny. Arthur began to relax, the salt air was always able to calm him like no other, it was probably a side effect of being a considerably isolated island nation. Arthur turned to look at Francis, who was looking aggravatingly radiant against the gentle background of the English channel.

“Arthur, do you remember when I first arrived here?”

The English nation stared for a few moments, blinking, his eyebrows furrowed. He answered the question with a baffled tone. “Of course, it was only a few hours ago?"

“Non, do you _remember?"_

“Saying it again, like that, like I am supposed to have the fainted idea what you mean, does not help the fact you're talking gibberish!" 

Francis stopped, the clouds had moved to cover over the sun, shade fell on his face and black suit. He placed the cane he was holding under his arm, to the ground. Arthur couldn’t place his expression. “You were so young when we invaded. I have always wondered what exactly you thought of me when I first arrived on the beaches of Dover.”

Arthur took a step back, he blinked. “Why exactly have you decided to ask me this now?”

Francis took a moment to look at Arthur directly, he studied the questioning face before once more continuing to walk, his mind elsewhere. “It doesn’t matter after all.”

Arthur was more than just confused, but he decided not to press the matter, it had given him more questions than answers. Of course, the French nation was prone to fits of extreme passion every now and then, he always had. Understandably, it had been quite a long time since France had last been in England; on the shores no less, and the nature of his visit was so much different than all of the other times. He was being gentle and they weren’t trying to kill each other, to crush the other to dust, and let those pieces fly into the eyes of Europe. They were at peace in the eye of a metaphorical storm. Arthur looked symbolically at the straight of the channel, his eyes cast at the rolling waves and sea birds. Europe would be at war soon, it was almost inevitable, and they needed to be together now more than ever- it was critical. Francis was a neighbour to the oppressor and Arthur was significantly weaker since losing a large majority of his empire. They had always been stronger as a unit anyway. Arthur looked back at Francis, who seemed to be having his own mental dialogue by the looks of his hard set expression, and downcast eyes. The question had at first seemed curious and perhaps, a little out-dated, but Arthur understood that Francis had his own ways of coping, he needed to know that there were no ‘hard feelings’ as it were. It was more complicated than that, certainly, but there was no putting into words how exactly the pair connected. When two beings have lived long enough to see the beginning and end of civilisations, nothing is sacred. Arthur truly thought about the question he was premised 'what exactly did you think of me, when I first landed on the beaches of Dover' it was not a question that was easily answered.

“I- well, perhaps, Francis, I was scared. You can’t possibly blame me for that though, I was a child!”

The French nation looked over at Arthur, brought out from his trance. His features softened. “Yes, I’m sure, I was scared also.” They gazed into each others eyes for a few moments, Francis' smile was beautiful, Arthur turned breaking eye contact. Francis pointed at a beach-hut, standing on the edge of the prom, clearly trying to change the subject. “Isn’t it just so inspiring, wouldn’t it be good as a temporary artistic studio- the melancholy weather of your country generates a lot of ideas.”

“I suppose." Arthur agreed, moving to join him. "Though that really isn’t what they’re designed for.”

A day later, the paperwork and finances for the beach-hut had gone through Arthur’s government controls, (his king at the time had wanted to approve his expenditure to make sure ‘like king; like country.’) He was more lenient considering it was a gift to Francis of sorts. Arthur was sure that his leaders at that time would have done anything to  keep the nation he was still attempting to keep peace with, well, peaceful. After that it was only ten years before the First World War would begin, and a whole new age of their friendship would begin. Francis had kept the picture they’d taken on the day they had met in Scarborough in April 1904, the day they had rented the beach-hut. Arthur had almost completely forgotten it existed, almost completely forgotten that their relationship had once been so tense. He held the picture in his gloved hands, the discarded album lay on the worn floor-boards.

Suddenly overcome with deep nostalgia for all the memories they had made together involving the beach-hut, Arthur gathered up all the discarded photos putting them neatly back in the folder and back on the coffee table. He almost couldn't believe he had let himself forget. Arthur propped the small black and white picture up against his favourite mug, on the coffee table, and left for the train station. He didn’t care that he would miss his meeting quite so much anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> The name-sake of this story is the amazing song 'Summertime record' - by Jin (I will link the songs) it was used in the anime Mekakucity Actors (which I personally recommend.) I had this idea before, and posted one chapter of it but I realised I rushed it, and put out something I didn't like, so I deleted it to make some changes. I am happy with this- so please, I am open to feed back, and constructive criticism would be much appreciated. 
> 
> I found the English version by JubyPhoncic first, so here it is if you feel like listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csLqT7uQ5g0  
> Here's the original Japanese version by Mafumafu which is equally as good: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avDcNHGb_tc


End file.
